


Silk

by hirayaart



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, Royai - Freeform, riza hawkeye - Freeform, roy mustang - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:02:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24701998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hirayaart/pseuds/hirayaart
Summary: Seems there was only one way to uncover the secrets of Reole, and it involved getting a little more dressed up than usual. Their roles are reversed for the occasion, and when his charge returns to him, bewitching in the way she’s composed herself, he wonders if he can ask for a little more than fortune—if he can participate in this pocket of Central’s blind elite society.
Relationships: Riza Hawkeye & Roy Mustang, Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 17
Kudos: 36





	Silk

**Author's Note:**

> \- Written with accompanying cover art on my tumblr, also a HUGE thank you for reaching 100 followers 🤧  
> \- A break from my usual fluff and implicit romance! Explicit Royai. Rated for themes, mature language and descriptions.

There is a uniqueness to the luxuries of the capital of Amestris, Central City. High structures that suited high society, with architecture teeming volumes of a classical era, smooth white exteriors made of marble and granite, and gilt frames sturdy above cobblestone streets. All but served the purpose to symbolize the power of the Führer who sat at the heart of the city and commanded a formidable legion of armed forces who were trained to defend and protect.

There were certain pockets in this great city capable of nurturing an opinion of fame and fortune, although it was a window rarely opened for most. Anyone who found themselves in these pockets found opportunity, and if they led just a little bit of a charmed life, perhaps they’d find success. Success favored the lucky. Men favored rank and prestige like women favored glittering diamonds afforded by wealthy husbands. These people could buy themselves almost anything they desired, and they spent most of their lives climbing over each other for recognition found nowhere else but in social expectations, magazines, and in some cases, scandalous gossip.

_All but petty things._

One such elegantly dressed woman walked her way leisurely through the grandeur of Central’s _Istana Maimun,_ a extravagant casino and hotel that served anyone who sought a name for themselves and were willing to gamble for it, as well anyone who sought nothing but trouble.

Deep shades of emerald silk hugged her body in places even the most decently minded man would find a little more than attractive. Distracting. Arousing. It was in the way she strode with the confidence of a duchess, militaristic training carried her blonde head high and broad shoulders pulled back into perfect form. Her hips swayed with the air of mild sensuality, assisted by nude high heels that made her look light as a feather. To anyone ahead of her who couldn’t help but turn to stare, porcelain skin shone almost provocatively beneath a slit of pure silk and would disappear as quickly as it revealed, for every second and a half she spent taking another step forward.

She stopped at the entryway of the Maimun’s Sage Bar, other guests moving fluidly past her and oblivious to her agenda. She winked at the guard on duty, “I’d like to see the master of house,” she quipped.

“I’m afraid we don’t serve water here, madame.”

_“Wine will do.”_

The code was correct.

She was ceremoniously ushered into the bar, and she was immediately met with the reverberation of live music emanating from a piano, and its accompanying bass and saxophone. Weaving over it were the voices of affluent couples, and business tycoons who looked too old for some of their escorts, drunk on something more than alcohol, high on something more than a drug. They sank into their luxurious velveteen couches, laughed and clinked their glasses in the air, having long since left behind any semblance of the realities they lived outside the dream-laden walls of the Istana Maimun. Her deep amber eyes scanned the expanse of the bar as she and her ‘guard’ made their way through the intoxicated crowd. She just managed to spot a familiar face standing, so as not to wrinkle his obviously _extortionate_ tuxedo, alone at the centerpiece of Sage’s bar counter, nursing what she knew was a freshly shaken gentleman’s drink--pure, strong, unadulterated gin.

As if aware of her presence, he shifted his own eyes to meet hers and offered an almost invisible smile. His dark regard dared took a sweeping look of her from head to toe, and took in her image with nigh avarice.

She offered nothing in return. She’d make him wait, make him pine. Even as she decided with finality to repurpose her focus away from him, she could imagine the ghost of a smirk playing across his definitively handsome features, played up by his black hair swept back for the demands of the occasion.

The guard arrived at a stop, and she rested on her hip awaiting further instructions. “When you’re ready, madame.”

She almost rolled her eyes, “Always.”

Mahogany doors opened to reveal a dimly lit private office, into which she stepped. Her lips spread into a well-practiced smile that conveyed nothing but want for a well-built red-haired gentleman across the room, who rose from his leather armchair, one palm open, the other around a dirty martini.

 _“Amelia Winter,”_ he said deliberately. “I should say your visit comes as a surprise, but your _get-up,_ my, my.”

She stepped closer, taking her time with the sweeping motions of her silk gown and its notoriously high slit.

 _“That’s_ the surprise,” the man grinned.

“When we last met, you said you wanted to show me something,” she sang. “A jewel that immortal flesh believed themselves beholden to.”

“Darling Amelia,” her host laughed. “What would someone like you want with a jewel of immortality?” He closed the distance between them, sliding his free hand around her waist and down to her lower back. His martini was close to her cheek.

“I see nothing but youth, your hair is as golden as the sun god to which this jewel owes its very existence. Your skin is absolutely pellusive…” he trailed off, his piercing gray eyes running down the line of her face and admiring the shape of her jaw. “Why concern yourself with youthfulness you already have?”

“I only want to see what you proudly said you could show me,” she said quietly, tracing her fingers up the lavishly embroidered sleeve of his suit until they wrapped around the stem of the martini glass and took it into her own hand. She took a sip, glittery eyes still holding his gray ones. “You know, a woman doesn’t appreciate being lied to,” she added sweetly.

She was met with another bout of sultry laughter. “I like a go-getter woman like you, Amelia,” he said and dropped his hand until his fifth finger barely brushed her bum. She almost flinched. _Fuck you._

The man tore himself away from her and walked to one of the oil paintings on the sidewall. “You know you’d be privileged for seeing this,” he smiled.

Her eyes flashed. _“Your_ privilege is that you get to have me over,” she taunted. “I daresay I outweigh anything in your possession.”

He shook his head and chuckled, and slid the painting easily out of the way, revealing a black vault. He looked back at her and immediately fell for her feigned astonishment. “Impressed, are you?”

She watched silently as the vault was unlocked before her eyes. He invited her to move even closer, and when she did, it took every ounce of willpower to keep from dropping the glass in her hand. 

“You’re looking at the gift of the Sun God Leto, to the rest of humanity, my dear Amelia,” he said. “Isn’t she... _ethereal?”_

Staring back at her, gleaming against her wide eyes and nestled on a cushion of deep purple velvet and golden tassels, was the bright blood-red face of a most particular gem.

_A Philosopher’s Stone._

* * *

The burden of his title, _colonel,_ was deliberately removed from his shoulders tonight. Squandering money at a high voguish casino was furthest from that profile to begin with. He had a pseudonym of his own for the purpose of this operation, but he had yet to find reason to even use it. He leaned lazily against the counter, halfway into his third gin, so accustomed to the nature of this side of his work that he was hardly even buzzed.

Earlier that week his warrant officer came into the office with newfound intel on rising cultic activities in the eastern town of Reole. It initially seemed to require nothing more than a low profile surveillance, until the mention of a suspected Philosopher’s Stone in the hands of a Letoist and crazed jeweler who held office in the infamous Istana Maimun. Without a search warrant and any evidence or history of record with the Military Police, the Mustang team was left with little choice next to a covert operation. Especially upon learning that the Letoist, although ill-fitting for his religious devotion, had a habit of eagerly opening doors for ‘beautiful entrepreneurial women’.

He furrowed his brow and fixed his gaze at the point where he last saw _her._ He started to mentally kick himself—if she had in any way misconstrued his relatively simple instructions and so found herself in a dangerous position, or if he had walked her into a deathtrap in the first place. Roy Mustang released a hot breath and muttered a trail of expletives as he took another sip of his drink, his eyes still fixed on the same point where a guard—the guard that _led_ her in there—stood at attention outside the ominous mahogany doors.

He swore he was about to march over there to collect her himself when she finally stepped out. Her demeanor was as cool and calm as when she had arrived, smoothing out her long skirt with slender fingers before making her way down ebony tiled steps and towards his direction. Her expression was unreadable.

He watched her, almost relished at the mere sight of her, as she moved with remarkable ease in her uncharacteristic ensemble of luxurious silk. Her figure was like classical sculpture, reminiscent of the timeless artistic beauty of Amestris’ most grandiose architecture. Years of military training had served her build for sure, toned muscles almost taunting him from under all that fabric, especially in the areas above and around her naturally cinched waist and firm hips. 

He barely realized that he gripped his glass with one hand and pocketed the other.

“Exercising self-control, are you?” she teased coolly, eyes glinting under what little ambient light Sage offered its patrons. She was accustomed to recognizing his inward bestial struggles, just out of the way he fixed his gaze on her in that moment, so feverishly that she knew he could set her up in the kind of flames only he could deliver.

And he wouldn’t even have to snap.

“Give me a break,” he said, clenching his pocketed hand into a self-restricting fist, “I’m working overtime and you’re looking like _that.” Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye._

As she stepped closer, Roy immediately recognized her distinct fragrance. That, mixed with what he’d been drinking, was certainly intoxicating. He did nothing to stop her as she pressed her body against his and inclined her neck so that her perfectly glossed lips brushed against his ear.

All, of course, just for show.

 _“He has a stone in there,”_ she said quietly, and she felt a strong arm circle her waist and hold her firmly in place. “They’re planning to ship it out to Reole in no less than 72 hours. I have reason to believe that Major Arzen has a cut for the ‘services.’”

That was all they needed to know.

He looked down at her neck, stretched with more than enough space for him to _work_ on...

He rubbed the small of her back, tapping his thumb against it twice. _Anything else?_

“Give the tip to Ed, Colonel. We can’t move as freely as he can,” and she nips at his ear, signifying that was the end of her report.

_Goddamn._

“Do that again,” he said, aware that he was pushing his luck. He really couldn’t help himself.

His only reward was her musical laugh as she pried herself out of his hold. “We’re done here,” she said. “Settle your bill and I’ll drive you home.”

He watched as she walked away, rooted to the spot, still captivated under her spell as she disappeared easily through the crowd and made her way to the cloakroom. Roy shook his head and called for the bartender.

* * *

The evening air outdoors was cool enough to only be enjoyable, and so both of them had settled for draping their coats neatly over their arms. Needless to say, Roy took pleasure at the extra time he had to admire his companion in _that_ dress.

When they reached his car, he held the driver’s side open for her as she slid into the seat and immediately kicked off her heels. “That’s a relief,” she sighed.

Roy smirked and rested a supporting arm against the doorframe so he could lean in. “You know,” he began, “You should really consider wearing that shade on your lips more often.”

“It’s against military policy,” Riza scoffed. “If you like it that much, find us more excuses for me to wear it.”

He was impressed by her candidness, and he all but kept his eyes on her.

When she looked up, she saw it immediately. His gaze was earnest-- _hungry--_ and growing even more so with each passing second. She had had nothing more than two sips of the martini, so her mind was at least able to register that if her superior officer appeared closer than he normally did, it meant he _actually_ was. Against the characteristic chill of Central’s evenings, she could feel the heat from his well dressed physique almost radiate through the silk of her gown and spread over every inch of her skin under it. She wondered for a moment if her own body was generating some of that heat herself, and...if he could feel it, too. Perhaps she could have counted the number of full breaths she took, if only she could be sure that they were still full, by the time they started.

No, most certainly not. Her breaths had become shorter even before that moment, and now they were nothing but hitched, gasping, and urgent, matched with the rhythm of his lips against hers taking her in, burning sensations into her mouth that she had craved all night. 

_Reality was always better than the product of the mind._

His hands found their way around parts of her that made her body straighten, and he didn't miss the way the silken small of her back withdrew from his touch as she arched it into a perfectly pleasing sybaritic form. He was patient, almost excruciatingly so, gentle with her in every regard as if as a testament to how truly invaluable she was to him. Riza Hawkeye, for as long as he could remember, was _untouchable._ Beyond the fact that she was his then Master’s daughter, beyond the rules and regulations imposed by the military, she was herself, lady of the manor, inviolable and innately demanding of reverence and respect.

Because she was a woman, and deserving of nothing less.

But he pressed into her with heady desire, with ragged breaths drinking up her sweetness like it was fine wine. He placed a hand on the back of her head and played with what stray strands of gold escaped her barette of diamonds. His other hand sidled up the slit of her skirt, and traced fire on her skin, fingers dancing as far up as he dared.

Blood rushed to her head dizzying her and splitting her brain in half. She opened her mouth and took a breath, subconscious that he’d been silently asking for permission, and she realized that her choice of action allowed him to slip his tongue through, sliding onto hers and deepening their kiss with carnal desire. It made her acutely aware of where his free hand had trailed as it traced the skin right beneath her gun holster.

“I hate this thing,” he muttered into her mouth.

“For _godsake,”_ she almost laughed, “If you can unhook a brassiere, you can unbuckle a holster.” And she felt his devilish smile against her lips when he figured out the bloody buckle and the pistol fell to the floor of the car with a muffled thud, as his hand roamed the expanse of her bare thigh with renewed fervour.

He pursued lines to her jaw and she gasped for air. He worked his way teeth and tongue, down that long slender neck that he had earlier exercised restraint against, _marking_ her with all the kisses he had ever wanted to. 

“What makes you think I can unhook a brassiere?” he asked into her collarbone, voice husky and muffled.

“Something tells me,” Riza brought a light touch to his face and it immediately brought him back to her mouth. “Growing up with your sist _\--mmph.”_

He sucked at her lower lip and it finally prompted a sound from her that sent trembles throughout his body, eliciting a fever he daresay always had to keep subdued every time she was around. But at least for the circumstances at present, there was no need to try, no laws to abide by--just a world of dreams and possibilities kept safely within this _pocket_ of Central’s wealthy elite. If only he could stay at the present…

Just…

a little…

_more._

He gasped when he finally forced himself to break off, and the sweat that had begun to form under his collar made his bowtie feel a thousand times more suffocating.

She nipped at him one more time, to both his dismay and pleasure.

“Lieutenant,” he said breathlessly, “I’d permit this behavior any time.”

Riza rolled her eyes, a feat considering the pounding in her head, and tapped his cheek in a mocking slap. “Get in the car, Colonel,” she said.

Roy grinned and wordlessly obliged.


End file.
